


Strange Men Who Want Nothing But Your Arms

by ivorybunny



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Other, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-01 06:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11480400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorybunny/pseuds/ivorybunny
Summary: Junkrat's arm is forfeit. A deal is made.





	1. Junkrat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A baby loses something important to him.

His first scream was more of a squeal – shrill and piercing. He held it for as long as he could, then it tapered off and left him panting. The pale man simply watched him calmly, withdrawing the scalpel and pointed it downwards so the blood dripped on the floor, rather than dribbling down his arm.  
“The more you yell, the longer this will take. You know nobody is coming for you.”  
The junker shot a glare at him, summoning all his fire and energy into the gaze. The man simply stared back. There was not enough expression to even be described as cold; he was like an animated puppet, a shadow of a person. 

He looked back down to his arm, strapped in so tight the tips of his fingers were going blue. The scalpel bit into his skin again, in the same place, and he continued to slice meticulously. Junkrat gritted his teeth, hard enough he thought one of the fake ones would crack. His tongue, too big for his mouth, pressed against the roof of his mouth the squash down any noise. When he woke up, still drowsy from the drugs, he had teased them and made fun. When the gravity of the situation dawned on him, he tried intimidation. He thought to himself, he'd sooner die than resort to bargaining, but these people didn't seem to want anything. This person? All he knew is he woke up, arms and legs strapped down, and a strange, pale man who felt neither here nor there about cutting on him. As though it was as menial a job as sweeping the floor. He hadn't asked for a map to his treasure, hadn't threatened him or asked for money. Simply sat down, opened a briefcase, and hey ho here we go, Junkrat's arm was fair game. Junkrat didn't even know if the man knew he was or not. 

The only time his expression had changed at all was when he was slicing the middle of his forearm. He had gone quite deep, much to Junkrat's distaste. He paused, observed his handiwork, and a frown flickered across his thin mouth. It disappeared quickly, and he moved up Junkrat's arm. Apparently just below the elbow would serve his purposes better, and he began the cutting process again. He stopped occasionally, when Junkrat screeched especially loud. He didn't seem frustrated or exasperated, but just waited patiently for quiet to begin again. Junkrat couldn't make heads or tails of it.  
“What the fuck do you even want?” He hissed out.  
The man raised his eyes.  
“To cut off your arm. I thought that much was obvious.”  
The condescending tone irritated Junkrat more than anything. Of course he wanted to cut off his fucking arm!  
“Why, fuckwit. Why do you want my arm?”  
The man smiled slightly. The second change in the three hour long session.  
“Because.”  
He lowered his eyes and continued his work. 

One thing Junkrat was proud of was his ability to take a beating without too much complaint, but this really was something. It wasn't just the pain, but the psychological aspect of it. This person didn't seem to be taking enjoyment out of it. He wasn't revulsed by what he was doing. There was no foothold for Junkrat to latch onto and manipulate in order to weasel out of the situation like he had so many others. And there were quite a few of such situations, and the were all after one thing. Junkrat was always good at keeping his mouth zipped about it, but when metal touched bone, he cried uncle.  
“Stop! Stop, please I'll tell you where it is, please just stop!”  
The man looked up at him again. Junkrat wanted to think that his watery eyes were staring into his soul or something equally as dramatic, but they didn't have the depth. The man looked borderline bored.  
“Where what is?”  
Well, that was definitely a surprise. Every suit and junker from here to Perth knew what Junkrat had and how precious it was. Most of them were itching to get their fingers on it. At worse, they thought the crazed demolitionist and his prized treasure were a myth  
“My- my-”  
“If I cared for your treasure, don't you think I would have asked for it by now?”  
For once, Junkrat was dumbstruck. He was used to fighting tooth and nail to keep his mouth shut, but now his only key to freedom was useless. It never struck him that his treasure could be used as an escape. 

The man withdrew his scalpel from Junkrat's thin arm. There wasn't much to cut through, but he had been taking his time, and it showed; the incision was perfectly straight, an elegant slice from one side of his arm to the other. The man carefully wiped away blood that had been pooling there for that brief moment, as he had been doing through the procedure. Then, wordlessly, he loosened the shackle around his wrist just enough that he could twist his arm around – which he did – and then tightened it again. He bent down, fiddling with something in the chair, Junkrat too exhausted to bother looking. He slid the solid section of metal that had been supporting his forearm, then smiled wanly at Junkrat.  
“This is the worst part, I think.”  
Some hint at personality, personal interests. Junkrat almost cried, half convinced in his delirium that perhaps he was being tortured by a robot.  
Crack  
There was no shrill, high pitched squeal this time. A low, ragged groan dragged itself out of his throat like broken glass. Pain engulfed his entire left side, blurring the boundaries between limbs. Arm, leg, torso – it all seemed the pain. Spots danced in front of his eyes briefly, then he blacked out. 

He awoke, the pain still coursing through him, but duller. He lolled his head towards the man, who seemed to not have taken notice of what he was going through. He was calmly working his way through Junkrat's arm in the same meticulous, patient manner.  
“Wha-what the fuck... What did you do?” He breathed out, slowly panting.  
“I have broken your arm, Mr Fawkes. It allows me to cut clean through your arm easier.”  
What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck 

He didn't scream from then on. There was no point. The man kept working as Junkrat lay there like a dead body. He could only wish it were so. The pain seemed to become a part of him, so much so it didn't seem abnormal and he didn't notice it. He wasn't quite convinced it was his body anyway. He felt separate, floating above it, perhaps, somewhere else. Sitting outside looking in, watching a strange, small man work on a seven foot filthy ragdoll. It went faster as well, with him sitting limp and submissive. He could empathise more with the man like this as well. Suppose he had been cutting limbs for long enough that he no longer existed in his body, like Junkrat was now. Perhaps he was as desensitised as his victims. He considered asking, playing with the question in his mind, just a casual, hey mate, how're the kids, how's work, oh yeah, are you real when you amputate arms? Makes you sound like a fuckin' galah when you put it that way. 

He must have dozed off or passed out or something, because he remembered waking up. It was night and the cold, irradiated air had never felt so delicious, the moon never so inviting. Junkrat was almost excited to be there, back to his old self, the spark in his belly reigniting. He went to push himself up of the ground but - 

He stumbled down, the ghost of a limb not enough to support his body. He looked at the stump with brief confusion. It was neatly bandaged, and although it wasn't clean – he could see hints of blood beneath the bandages – the bleeding was minimal enough to suggest stitches. Clean, methodical, beautiful, even. What the actual fuck. This wasn't some weird fever dream, not a nightmare that he sometimes got that made him pull at his hair and cry into his arms. The man, the clean cuts, the screaming, the minimal conversation, the pain – it all hit him at once and he doubled over like he'd been punched in the gut. 

Even though there was only a dull, burning ache radiating from his mutilated arm, he howled. The physical pain was nothing, ask anyone. Junkrat's tough as tits and could stand an amputation, easy peasy. But the confusion, the bewilderment, the unanswered questioned wore a hole in his stomach and brain like acid. He felt as though he was reverting back to when he was child, lost in the burning wreck of his family home, screaming for his mother. He felt disoriented and frightened, and extremely vulnerable. Even though the yells were hoarse and grated at his throat, he still howled and yelped like a wounded animal, unable to express his feelings in any other way. He was helpless. In pain, missing one of the most important things for his survival. Two hands were vital in the construction of any kind of bomb, to drive, to do anything. This kind of disability meant the other junkers would be on him like vultures.


	2. Roadhog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadhog finds a baby. A dangerous, injured, half-crazed baby.

He seemed so young and small, as innocent and vulnerable like a baby, all curled up like that. That was how Roadhog found him. Covered in God knows how many day's worth of dust, shivering and out in the open. He nudged the tiny man with his foot.  
“Oi.”  
The junker jerked awake, paranoid, manic eyes immediately meeting that of Roadhog's mask, and he made to scamper away. Like a rat. Suppose that's where the name comes from, thought Roadhog. The scampering was hindered, however, by the filthy bandaged stump underneath his left elbow. He stumbled and hissed, and Roadhog took the opportunity to lift Junkrat up by the scruff of his neck like a disobedient kitten.  
“So this is Junkrat. The fuckwit everyone's been -”  
He was cut off by a kick in the groin, and he dropped the Junker with a huff. He landed on his feet and made to scurry away, again, but he was weak and Roadhog needed more than a kick to stop him. He seized the man again, forced him around, and met those golden eyes. They were panicked and watery, and shit scared. Roadhog felt a twinge of anxiety. He'd heard rumours and myths of this guy. He left a bloody trail behind them, a genius with bombs and explosives. Almost impossible to ambush and most hostile encounters ended poorly. So either the stories were wildly exaggerated, or whatever had this junker in such a state was something to be concerned about.

Junkrat sunk his teeth into his calloused hand in a desperate attempt to free himself, but Roadhog merely winced. He had not expected to encounter him today, and certainly not like this. He was at a loss for words.  
“You want the treasure?”  
Well, that got his attention.  
Junkrat's lips were shaking and the words spilled out of his mouth as if he had no control of what he was saying. His tongue ran over his cracked lips and spittle was forming at the corners of his mouth.  
“If you want it you can have it, I don't care I don't care anymore! It doesn't work, it doesn't matter, I just don't want to be here, just don't let them – don't let them near – my arm – my arm -”

Something stirred in Roadhog in response to the show of desperation he had before him. It was pathetic. He was exactly like a kitten; dirty and lost and desperate. Although Roadhog was known for being stoic and uncaring, Mako had been a father. You don't lose those types of instincts.  
“Stop – calm down. What are you on about?”  
Junkrat waved the stump at him wildly.  
“The man, the pale man, he came and took part of me away, there's nothing there now and I don't want to – I don't want this, I don't know what to do.”  
The last part was said with resignation, and his body grew limp.  
“You want this goddamn treasure, fine. You can fuckin' have it, I don't want it. It doesn't work for me no more.” He spat on the ground and Roadhog stared.

When you're a father, that's who you are. It becomes your first instinct. It's what you revert to. Mako was a good father and knew how to hold down protesting children as he helped clean and wash grazes and bandages. Junkrat was no different. Although he was an impressive height and stronger than his wiry frame suggested, he hadn't eaten for days. There was not much he could do to stop Roadhog peeling the disgusting bandage off and inspecting the scabbing stitching.

Whoever had done this was good. Professional. But not amount of skill was going to help your charge if he decides to lie in the dirt for three days, and the wound needed cleaning. Junkrat stared in the distance as he poured alcohol on the wound, not even flinching.  
“Who did this to you?”  
“I told you. A man. I don't know. Are you going to kill me?”  
He didn't even sound scared when he said it. Almost pleading.  
“No.” Just a grunt, and he resumed his work.  
It was a surprise to many, but Roadhog enjoyed healing. Fighting and killing, fine, sure, great. But it was too much, too loud, and it didn't feel like him. He liked to think. Checking, cleaning, rubbing in salve, rebandaging. It allowed him time to think and deliberate.

So, the infamous junker was helpless and wounded, and practically offering something that usually couldn't be tortured out of him on a silver platter. Things seemed wrong and off; he acted like a child who woke up from a nightmare but didn't want to tell you about it. He also seemed to be barreling down the path of self destruction. Being careless with his own life. No survival instinct. It kindled some kind of fire in Roadhog, one he thought he put out long ago. Something was up. The kid had an arm cut off and had been put through something traumatic enough to send him crazy like this.  
“This man, what was he like?”  
Angry eyes met his. “What the fuck do you care?”  
“I like to look out for myself. And my arms.”  
That earned him another glare, but he sensed the other junker was vaguely amused by his comments. Probably related to them.  
Eventually, he replied. “He was just... blank. Y'know? There was nothing to him.” He paused, then continued. “He was pale. It was strange. And he seemed bored.”

Pale certainly was strange in a place like this. Extremely strange in the sunburnt country. And as for being bored – that certainly didn't sound like a junker. The lingering radiation added a touch of madness and thirst for blood. Junkers were like sharks, add a touch of blood in the atmosphere and they were out and screaming for more. He was lucky, having being born before the Omnic crisis, getting all his growing out of the way before being irradiated. The likes of Junkrat, however, grew up with it in their system. He pitied the man, really. He seemed uncomfortable in his own skin, twitching and letting out random bursts of giggles. His wide eyes darted around the room, unable to rest on a single spot, although that could easily be attributed to the recent loss of limb.

The sun was dipping below the horizon, causing the irradiated sand of the outback to glow a deep and dusty red. Even though the ground was still warm, it would get very cold very quickly. Roadhog deliberated, weighing up his options.   
“I have a safehouse nearby,” he said.   
The other junker just stared in confusion.   
“Safe – safehouse…?”  
“Yes.”  
There was a moment. Roadhog sighed and hoisted the other junker up by his good arm and begand dragging him. Junkrat simply stumbled after him, too dazed, too confused to argue. He knew it was getting cold. He was a survivalist. He knew his best chance was with Roadhog. Roadhog knew it too. 

In the the outback, safehouse had a very loose definition. Something that vaguely had four walls and a roof was acceptable. This one was pretty good, so Roadhog took pains to make sure no one knew of its existence, ensuring he was never followed on his way back from missions, avoiding taking even the closest of allies. So why the hell was he taking this useless, crippled junker? 

For one, he doubted Junkrat would fight him for it. The kid seemed half dead already, psychologically. He allowed himself to be guided and dragged, sat on the ground, staring at his remaining hand numbly. Fuckin’ useless, really. If he had any doubts about his own safety, Roadhog could easily kill him in this state. What rattled him, though, was that the injury was just… not that bad. An amputation, one as done as well as this, could be healed from easily. Give him a couple of days, maybe some painkillers, and someone as young and strong as this should be running around like normal. Something was bothering him, really bothering him. He thought back to what he had said in his babbling. It doesn’t work – what did he mean by that? 

Like any junker, Roadhog was burning with curiosity about the infamous Junkrat’s treasure. Perhaps this was a clue as to it’s worth, or what it actually was. He bent down in the old fireplace of the house, poking a few crumpled up pieces of newspaper as kindling. The warmth would be welcome, he hoped. Maybe some hot food would coax more information out of the other man, or at least make him feel better. Although filthy, his blonde hair reminded him too much of his son – 

No. Not the time. He was not a father any more. His son was gone. This man, he’s dangerous, he’s a genius, and he’s acting fucking insane. Not the time. The time was to put the cans of soup – disgusting slop, really – on the fire to heat, the time was to shovel it down the throat so you don’t taste it, and the time was to get some answers. 

He turned around to Junkrat to communicate this plan. The glow of the fire illuminated the lines in his sleeping face and the gold of his hair under the dirt and soot. He looked so young – he couldn’t have been much older than twenty. He twitched in his sleep, fitful, and grunted. He drew a hand up to his hair and tugged, gently at first, then harder. He let out a yowl, like a cat in pain, twitching more. He tried to grab his hand – the one that was gone – and just batted the air where it was supposed to be. More grunts. More twitching. Poor kid. Mako shook him gently, and his eyes fluttered open. Bright gold, like amber. Their eyes met, briefly, but Junkrat’s were staring into space. Not registering. They closed again. Mako’s belly twinged and he turned away. Just meant two cans of soup for him, he thought.


End file.
